A Selection of Poems by Kristian Nammack

Here are some poems from Kristian Nammack!

                                   The Ends of Having
                        We all start and end in dirt.
                        I reach into the world with new breathe.
                        My mighty palms outstretched.
                        A light purple arm drawn out in every direction.
                        The sun has gifted me new life.
                        As has dancing in the rain.
                        A mosaic of every experience I’ve ever had.
                        It’s a work of art.                      
                        Grubby knuckles and sweat off my brow.
                        Washing away in the wind.
                          Laying tranquilly now in the river floating steadily along.
                        I give and I give, yet receive nothing.
                        Floating along
                        Wrapped in sticks and seaweed.
                        My mind has reached peace.
                        I feel the breath in my lungs come in and out.              
                        I can’t get enough.

                                   As I Lie Here

        As I lie here in the grassy field with my tortoise framed Ray-Bans blocking the reality of life.
        The easy fall wind dancing through my hair tells me
        Is nothing so perfect as this moment.
      
        Pure awe as I stare into the abstract underwater abyss
        This is the unknown
        this is your life and it’s ending every second of every day which swiftly passes.
        A black splurge of mystery.
        This sweet beauty will not last.
        Nothing ever does.      

        As I lie here in the frigid winter snow the harsh air tells me
        Are you just cracked, chipped off?
        Or shattered bits of glass?
        Trying to keep my face together like a puzzle missing pieces.
        Falling, piece by piece, sagging day by day.
        I am the shattering the decrepit and decayed.
        Useless rusty fragments of a former self.
        I try desperately to cling on to whatever piece of spontaneous persona I have left.
      
        As I lie here,
        dreaming of the day I charge into that blazing sunset
        and take on this intimidating world completely alone.
        No longer locked in a wooden chest, no longer slipping on complex stairs to nowhere.
        I know where I am and I’ve rightfully earned my place.
        Plant my left foot down, then rear the right around.
        One after another.
        Step by step.
        This long journey begins with one and my feet are bleeding.
        Bittersweet tears shower down my rosy cheeks.
        Well you did it, you got everything you wanted, now what.      
      
      
        As I lie here in my bed I tell myself.
        It’s alway darkest before the dawn.
        That melancholy feeling rips deep through my face this time.
         Guilt holes shred to make caverns of open dialogue with my conscious.
        Self-Reproach, self-condemnation, ashamed.
        A contrite look and anxiety stricken yelp whenever there near.
        The irredeemable deal you make with a mistake so bad.
        A lottery lost, the gamble I made finally stopped paying off.

        As I lie here in the sand looking through my tortoise framed Ray-Bans
        at the Miami sky I am truly happy.
        Sunny air on skin, ocean breeze blows away all sorrow.
        Dry tears from a numb heart.
        We all warm up eventually.
        Everything burns.
        There is woe and dejection.
        Pleasure and Euphoria
        The crash and burn and the ultimate up-liftment.
        This life the next life and all those billions of memories in between.
        Good and bad, black and white, this was my time all the same.
      
        As I lie here awaiting heavy impact.
        The only thoughts I have are for the exceptional memories I had on this planet.
        With them, with myself, and most importantly with her.
        I suppose one can only hope someone will miss me when I haven’t a trace left.
        I can see for miles and miles and miles now.
        Down the road to nowhere.
        The road now whispers,

        Where shall we go next?
        A hand with five fingers made up of millions of connections.
        This is it, and it’s ending slowly every day so make the most out of it.
        For the time being I can see just a few inches in front of me.
        However, I will always be surrounded by the thick fog.      

Happy National Poetry Month!

Guess what readers? (few though you may be) April is national poetry month and according to my calendar, it's April! So how will you be celebrating? My recommendation would be to find a quiet part of the day, go outside and write something! I for one have been extremely busy and stressed lately and have found that nothing is more cathartic than enjoying nature and ravenous gulps of fresh air while putting a couple thoughts onto paper. The best thing about poetry is that you, yes you, are in complete control. If you like rules, there's poetry as strict as the boy's dress code at formal dinner, if you like free form, there's poetry as free as the girl's dress code at formal dinner, you can write poems that are as long as a conversation with Mr. Leff, or poems short enough to be tweeted, you can write flowery sentences or simple prose. It's like a choose your own adventure novel but with infinite possibilities!
Over the course of the month, I will be attempting to put together some additional ways to celebrate. Some things to keep on the radar are Poem In Your Pocket Day on April 26, a possible literary publication by the end of the month, a poetry centric lunch (though probably not in the library like last year) and anything else anyone can think of.
As always, you are welcome and in fact encouraged to post your work to this blog either by emailing it to me or responding as a comment. In fact, you don't even have to post poetry! Post art, post a college essay, post your thoughts on this post, post your biology lab report, post song lyrics translated into Hungarian, post whatever your heart desires and your pen/handy-dandy-Gould-provided-computer-dictates. It will be fun I promise!

Also, check out this hilarious link to a blog on the Huffington Post about schools of poetry based on "unlikely modern poets" including the likes of Lady Gaga, Mitt Romney and Fidel Castro.  I found it rather amusing.
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/kathryn-petras/unlikely-modern-poets_b_1401217.html?ref=books

Happy National Poetry Month! And don't forget to POST POST POST!!!

Creative Writers

With the end of the trimester yesterday, came a rush of poems and short stories being posted on the blog. Many of the people in Mr. Bean's Creative Writing class decided to put up one of their pieces from the class for display on this blog, sharing them with the world. Read them, learn from them, be inspired by them, and write! Just write whatever comes to mind, be it in the form of poetry or prose. Write, and rewrite, and rewrite again, until you have something you are truly proud of. Then, when you do, you can send it in an email to one of the admins of this blog, or you can post it in a comment on one of the pieces that you like the most. You can choose to remain anonymous, or you can share your name, it's all up to you. But anonymous or not, only when you share your work can you receive feedback and grow, or bring enjoyment and pleasure to the readers.

Bell Bouy by Henry Willets

Up and down
and up and down.
Swinging and swaying,
Ringing and dinging.

Away from it’s friends
communicating from with sound.
Communicating with flashing lights.
One day, one day

365 days a year.
In the dark and cold,
in the bright and hot.

Green and red,
blinking and bobbing.
Rocking and rolling.

Big and cold,
Rusty and dusty.
Covered in sea gulls.

A signal, a part of life
marking the way
for many to stay.

Up and down
and up and down.
Swinging and swaying,
Ringing and dinging.

One day, one day.
When the current shifts,
it may have a neighbor.
It may have a friend.

The Spark by Wyatt Costello

I don’t know how to start or where to even begin
Things have changed
This world is forever changing
and like this world, we are changing too
We drifted apart
Where is that spark that was between us
It went out.
This flame that kept us warm that kept us close
That drew me in and made me speak to you for the first time
Why? Why did it have to go out.
The cold gust of wind came
It took me with it, swirling my thoughts
Taking over my thoughts.
It had control over me. Or did it really?
The gust sparked a new flame
This flame was small, but it caught my gaze
It danced, drawing me closer
Seducing me, growing bigger and bigger
The flame knew it had me
It consumed me, and I consumed it
But as soon as it consumed me
It went out, and my body went cold
But my thoughts burned
I knew that the chance to rekindle our flame was gone
If only I hadn’t found a new,
Someone else to relight that spark.
but this flame was there and ours was out.
It was a moment of weakness,
and I just needed some warmth.
Things have changed
This world is forever changing
I am forever cold now
Forever searching for a spark
But none of them are as warm as the one we had.
That spark extinguished
We became cold
We drifted apart.

Apartment 4 by Oluibukun Ekpebor

Momma used to tell me that a woman’s hair was her crown. The longer her hair, the prettier she was. Momma pretty was an understatement. I can remember my long Rapunzel strands gliding softly into my teardrops-- I was like a bird with all of its feathers plucked. As the clippers went through her hair, I thought of how beautiful I used to look but suddenly the reflection started to fade when her last curl fell down to the tiles.
The ceiling dropped its last chip of mustard yellow paint just as the street light blew out its remaining bulb. The pissy apartment hallways were still abandoned and safe from any hopes that the cops would shut this place down. We laid outside of the bedroom door with numb legs, black bruises, ripped panties and terrifying scars that showed the fight we may have put up. I only wondered what was she thinking? Most girls who came in the first day, cried, shouted, and left scars on the man’s face who was dragging them to a room. This unknown woman just sat in the corner staring at the boarded windows. “What’s ya name?” I asked the politest way I could, monotonous she turned her head and said, “Piper.”

Operation by Scott Cameron

6200 West 45th Street, fourth floor, apartment forty-two. Igor knocked firmly on the door, his right hand on his right hip, next to his revolver. A precaution.
The door opened. There stood Viktor Trubachev, who had taken the same precaution. He looked down at Igor’s suitcase. “You have it?”
“Da.”
Igor stepped into a barren apartment, decorated only by peeling wallpaper. He placed the suitcase a table and popped the lid. Igor scanned the layout of the room and was pleased, easily defenseble. Viktor checked the contents.
“An SVD?”
Igor only nodded
Together, they began the construction. Upper receiver, lower receiver, barrel, shoulder stock, flash suppressor, and lastly, the two-by-six scope.
Viktor opened a window, and, satisfied with its angle down West 45th, brought the table nearby. Igor sat down in a chair and lit his cigar.
Two hours later a man had stepped out of a limousine to the flashes of cameras and the microphones of reporters. He took his place at a podium. Four hundred meters away, a man named Igor Komarov focused his gaze through his scope.
But through the scope, there was no longer a target. There was a face, a name, and a personality. There stood a life which was now in Igor Komarov’s hands.
But it didn’t matter. Igor held his breath and braced for recoil.